


A Handful of Lessons

by thousandsofyears



Series: What Doesn't Kill Me [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 1982!Ford, Anal, Bill is an evil piece of shit, Bondage, Fisting, Gang Rape, Humiliation, It is not, M/M, Oral, technically the rapists are victims of deception as they think it's consensual kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thousandsofyears/pseuds/thousandsofyears
Summary: Bill arranges for Ford to be gangbanged. He does not tell him there's a safeword.
Relationships: OMCs/Stanford Pines (non-con)
Series: What Doesn't Kill Me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560454
Comments: 13
Kudos: 31





	A Handful of Lessons

_“Let’s talk a ‘scene’ The good kind, that makes me cry.”_

_[…]_

_“Yeah, be rough! If it doesn’t hurt, there’s no point!”_

_[…]_

_“Done that dozens of times, don’t worry!”_

_[…]_

_“Told ya! Heap on the humiliation! Make me feel like garbage!”_

_[…]_

_“Oh, that’s perfect! Use it! Make it personal!”_

_[…]_

_“Just remember that I get really into it. ‘Stop’ means to keep going! You can’t break it off unless I say the ‘safe-word’, get it?”_

_[…]_

_“Uh-huh. ‘Portal’. And when I’m gagged it’s four quick taps with my hand. Anything else means I’m enjoying it!”_

_[…]_

_“Sure, but I’m gonna need a few minutes to myself after it’s over. To get down from the ‘zone’. Just untie me and leave me for ten or fifteen minutes, then you can come back for the aftercare.”_

* * *

Stanford returns to consciousness to the reverberating bass of rock music on low volume, a disquieting feeling of having slept too long mulling in his guts.

No, that’s not it. It’s that he shouldn’t have slept _at all_. He’s been asleep, and that means he’s been giving Bill free access to _use_ him. It’s his own fault, but he thought he had it under control. All he had to do was not sleeping, and he’d been doing well. Now—

He’s jolted fully awake by something pulling his hair, and he realizes with a sick feeling that Bill most certainly has done _something_. No, the portal wasn’t fueled and he tried to get rid of the barrels, but Bill could have—

Ford’s head is pulled up by the hair, neck bending back as his face is forced up from the hard surface it had been resting on. A stranger’s bearded face looks down at him, inches from his own. Human, not a demon, and that’s a relief, but the stranger is still too close, in his space, and Ford instinctively tries to shy away. The fist in his hair only tightens, keeping his head still.

There’s a stranger gawking at his face an inch from his nose and holding his head by a fist in his hair and what the _hell_ —

There’s something in his mouth. He can’t _close his mouth_. There’s a large plastic object lodged between his jaws, like a hairless tennisball, and the realization makes him try to bite down, emitting a muffled sound that could have been a scream if his whole mouth hadn’t been _blocked_. A part of his mind that isn’t yet completely panicking supplies that it’s a gag, kept in place by straps around the back of his neck, and this whole thing is deliberate.

Ford stares wide-eyed at the man’s face above him. Dark blond. Bushy beard. He’s smiling, but not in a reassuring way. It makes no sense, but it has to. Bill did something to unsettle him, and he’s succeeding. It a hallucination, or a dream. He can feel his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, but this can’t be real because he was on the road in the middle of the forest, driving back after posting that card, and—oh God, how long was he out?

He’s bent over at the waist, upper body sprawled on some kind of cold table. He’s not wearing a shirt, nor anything else above the belt, and the chill from the surface is making goosebumps on his back. His arms are spread out awkwardly on either side of him, and he can’t move them—there’s a band tied around each wrist, attaching them to something at the corners of the table—and fisting his hands and pulling does nothing except confirm that yes, he’s tied to a table, gagged and shirtless and there’s a stranger smiling unpleasantly at him, and that’s the moment he fully panics.

He kicks his legs blindly behind him, straining every muscle in his arms, twisting his head regardless of any hair being torn lose. He feels his shoe briefly connect with something, and that only makes him flail more. But there’s no use, nothing happens, and the man doesn’t even let go of his head.

He doesn’t understand why, but he’s restrained like a specimen on the medical table, up for dissection. It’s not—it’s not even properly illuminated for science. The room, wherever he is, is only half lit, and without his glasses he can’t make out any details of anything beyond the stranger’s face. Did Bill arrange for this man to kill him? Is this some kind of elaborate execution?

It takes a moment in his frazzled state to recognize the sound of mumbling voices and laughter over the low beat of the music. There are more people here, somewhere behind him. He can’t tell how many, but for all he knows it’s a crowd. He’s laid out like a museum display and he can’t even _speak_.

The bearded man uses his free hand to brush the side of Ford’s face, and even beyond being so close, the touch feels like a violation.

“What do you say, _Sixer_ , shall we get started?” The way he says intones the nickname makes a chill go down Ford’s spine. He makes a pathetic noise around the gag, willing it to carry meaning. _What do you want with me? Why are you doing this? What did Bill tell you?_

The man lets go of Ford’s head, slowly taking a step to the left and placing his hand down on Ford’s. “Such a freak,” he says, and Ford can only see his back now—he’s wearing a plan T-shirt—but he feels him stroke Ford’s fingers, one at a time, and even though it doesn’t hurt, Ford can’t stop himself from shuddering. “Six of them.”

 _It’s just a birth defect_ , Ford wants to say. He’s always hated people gawking at his hands, but at least usually there’s a chance of removing himself from the situation, or changing the topic, but he can’t do anything now.

“Well, me and the boys have got a _handful_ of things to teach you.” He lets go of Ford’s hand, and Ford quickly curls it into a fist, hiding his fingers away. “Let’s get some education in.”

For a moment, Ford is convinced they’re going to kill him. Bill has given up on using him, and now he’s made a gang of psychopaths agree to _vivisect_ him.

Something touches the small of his back, and he expects knives, agonizing pain. It’s not. It’s—a hand. Fingers making a circle on his skin, then running slowly up his spine. The lack of pain is only briefly a relief, and the discomfort comes like a wave.

A second hand joins the first, no, two of them, slowly and deliberately exploring his sides from his armpits to the hem of his pants. Someone else brushes his shoulders, his forearms, the knuckles on his fists, and he tries not to react, but they’re all over him, some from behind, and some from the front, but all he can see is a few glimpses of pants and hairy arms.

He’s not going to whimper. It doesn’t even hurt. He tries to focus on _counting_ the number of hands, but he can’t, there’s no way to tell. His skin crawls and there are an unknown number of strange people invading his space, _touching_ him. Intently, intimately, rubbing and pinching and softly scratching his skin.

There’s no reason for them to do this. None whatsoever.

Why would they—why would Bill—

Ford squirms involuntarily, exposing part of his stomach, and then the hands are hands there, too, fingering his navel and tracing his ribs and—someone runs a nail across a nipple. Ford shudders and writhes again, but someone forces their hand in between him and the table and _pinches_ that nipple, hard.

 _Stop! Please. Stop!_ Nothing comes out through the gag but a pitiful moan. He might have preferred knives. This isn’t pain, but it’s unbearable in a way he can barely articulate even to himself. He’s never liked being touched, especially not by strangers, but this isn’t just that. It shouldn’t matter that it’s intimate—he’s been possessed by a literal demon, _that’s_ violation. This is just – people using their hands. It’s nothing, and he refuses to think of where Bill would have been going with it. He hides his face against the surface of the table and tries to make it less real.

The word is _humiliation_. He’s trembling, and he knows the strangers can all feel it.

There’s a sound of a zipper being pulled close to his ears, and suddenly everyone lets go of him. For a moment his body is blessedly alone. Then something hot and damp touches his forehead.

“Know what this is?” the bearded man’s voice asks. Ford tries not to guess, not to react, but the man grabs a fistful of hair and pulls his head up again.

A human penis is standing erect less than an inch from his gagged mouth.

It’s ugly. Human genitals are generally ugly, male and female, and Ford has never seen the point of them other than in the theoretical. He’s also never seen an erection other than his own, and never from this perspective. It’s huge.

“This, see, this is my cock.” The man steers the penis with one hand while holding Ford’s head with the other, letting the damp tip touch Ford’s forehead again, then travel down his face. Ford squeezes his eyes shut, and the man presses his member against his eyelid. It seems scalding. It seems like it could take his eye out. He’s gone limp, barely breathing, until the tip travels off his eye and settles back in front of his face.

“Like it?”

_No. Please stop._

“Even a freak knows where cocks go, right?”

 _That’s not—You can’t!_ A muffled groan emerges from Ford. The man is talking about sex—he’s talking about _rape_ , but Ford isn’t a woman, he doesn’t even _have_ a vagina. How would he—

There are hands touching him again, and this time they’re unzipping his pants.

He still can’t move, can’t talk, can’t defend himself, but another wave of cold panic shoots through him and he doesn’t think. He’s kicking and struggling against the strangers holding his legs, but they only hold him down tighter, pulling his pants down together with the underwear and exposing his buttocks to the open air. Shoes and socks are discarded along with his pants off somewhere, and he’s completely and utterly naked, bent over a table, and unable to move. He’s hyperventilating now. It still doesn’t make sense. They _can’t_ —

The hands have a new area of his body to explore. His legs are forced apart. Fingers brush the inside of his thighs, up to the area where his legs meet his crotch, rubbing and pushing and pinching. His genitals are being crushed between his body and the table, mostly out of reach, but they’re touching everything else, and there’s a strange ache that goes to his penis almost as if he’d _want_ to have sex. It’s grotesque. He’s naked there’s too many people touching him and he can’t—he can’t—

A sob escapes him, and the man in front of him notices immediately. “Crying already? We’ve hardly gotten started.” He raises his voice and looks over Ford’s back. “Will you open him up already, me and my cock’s dying over here!”

_But there’s no vagina to—_

Two hands grab his buttocks, hard enough to bruise, and pull them apart. Without much ado, someone’s dry finger is forced into Ford’s anus.

He gasps through the gag, eyes widening. The intrusion can’t be very far in, but it _burns_. It feels like the bodily breach is up in his throat, like he swallowed something vile and now it’s trying to make him vomit. It’s not quite nausea, but it’s not quite _not_ nausea. Fingers are not supposed to go in there. Nothing is supposed to go in there. His muscles are tense as steel, trying to keep it out, but it’s already in, and it hurts. He’s not breathing.

They _can_ do this. They can violate him from the inside.

The finger wiggles, then pulls out, and that burns too. Ford breathes again, but hands keep stroking him between the legs, between the buttocks, reminding him that there’s nothing private to him any longer, and he’s going to be conscious for everything.

He gets it now. There is no way the voluminous red penis he’s being forced to look at will fit in _that_ hole. They’ll have to cut him open after all, but only after humiliating to the highest possible degree.

He wants to stop trembling, to accept his fate, but his body doesn’t let him. Another sob comes like a hiccup. The bearded man pats his cheek.

There are more fingers around his anus, and now they’re wet, coated with something slick and slimy, edging round and round the hole as if they’re rubbing the slime in. When a finger finally pushes its way inside him again it doesn’t hurt as much. It goes in deeper, though, and it’s even more nauseating.

A second finger joins the first and it hurts again. That hole was not meant for this. _Ford_ was not meant for this. The fingers wiggle inside him, touching things no one was ever meant to touch. He feels _unclean_.

After a moment they strike a nerve that connects to his genitals, and Ford shudders violently. That’s not how it works. That’s not how _anything_ works.

“Slut.” It’s a stranger’s voice between his legs. They stroke the nerve inside him again, and again, and he twitches every time. His penis is still flattened between his stomach and the table, but it feels hot now. It aches.

“ _Freak_.” The fingers keep rubbing the nerve. There are hands on his back again. They can all feel him squirm.

It’s not even pleasant, it only makes it worse. Ford has never quite seen the point of orgasms, except sometimes in the ‘scratch an itch’ kind of way, and if his penis thinks this is the situation to start to responding to other people—other people he’s barely even seen and who keeps doing things to him against his will—it makes no sense. Nothing about this makes any sense. He wishes Bill could have chosen to just cut his throat.

 _Stop it!_ he tries again, gasping an incoherent sound through the gag. The fingers do stop stroking his nerve, but only to keep rubbing his sphincter from the inside, stretching the sides of his hole. His muscles struggle against it, and it hurts.

“So fucking tight!” The fingers pull out, only to go back in with more wet slime.

“Don’t slick him up too much,” the bearded man says. “It should be tight. The freak needs to _feel_ this.” He rubs his penis up against Ford’s gagged cheek, almost gently. There’s some sticky white fluid—semen, pre-discharge, the part of Ford’s brain that still works supplies—forming a drop at the tip, but he rubs it off below Ford’s eye.

Ford wishes incoherently that he could move his arm just once, to wipe it off. But he can’t, and the man doesn’t do it either. Instead he finally leaves Ford’s line of sight. All Ford can see now is a dark, indistinct wall some distance away.

The strangers behind him let go, hands leaving cold spots behind. There’s a few seconds in which no one is touching him, but Ford doesn’t dare think it’s over. He doesn’t even try to close his legs. They wouldn’t let him. Instead he closes his eyes, buries his face in the table surface, and tries to steel himself.

He’s not ready. He couldn’t be.

The man pushes his member into Ford’s hole in one forceful thrust, almost without warning, and for a moment his whole world whites out. It’s too much. He almost loses consciousness, and his mind longs for the void, but before there is any blessed oblivion to be had, he glimpses something yellow and a cheerful “Nope!”

It hurts like a spear piercing his stomach, his guts, his whole body, all the way to his throat and it shouldn’t, because there is no way one man’s penis is going that deep and it makes no anatomical sense, but the pain is horrifying. The whole penetrated area feels like a wound, splitting him open, and on the inside, he’s hollow.

The man pulls out a bit, then thrusts again. Again. Again. The pain spikes in waves with his movements.

He’s not actually hollow, but he is being penetrated through the anus and some way into his intestines. The sphincter muscle around his hole is burning in agony, and there are parts of him being touched right now that should never, ever be touched, by anything. He’s sobbing uncontrollably and he can’t even care. Every thrust makes him rub against the table, rocked back and forth by the force of the other man’s body slamming into him through a hole that shouldn’t be used for that.

It’s regular. He can breathe around it. He has to.

He’d thought he was being violated ten minutes ago. He hadn’t known this was even possible.

Even Bill’s violation wasn’t—when Bill possessed him, he was powerless and frustrated and scared, but he never _felt_ the actual act of violation. He was unconscious by definition. And even if Bill hurt his body, he would never feel the actual injury, only the damage left behind. This is—not like that.

He wants to die, but the abuse of his body simply continues.

There’s that nerve that was rubbed by fingers earlier, that makes his genitals ache with something that some people might even call pleasure, but that doesn’t help. It just makes the pain worse when it’s couple with something that makes his chest clench and his groin twitch as if this is _supposed_ to be enjoyable.

The man behind him thrusts one final time, then goes still with a shudder. Ford feels him lean over his back, breath hot and fast against his skin. “You’re a good fuck,” he says close to Ford’s ear.

It barely hurts when he pulls out, erection almost gone. Something drips out of Ford’s hole down the inside of his thigh—it’s disgusting, and he can’t even wipe himself. But it’s over.

He takes deep breaths, shuddering and trying to blink the tears away, trying to get his body to relax. Maybe this is when they kill him. Part of him hopes so. Another part hangs on to hope that if it’s over, they might let him go. He doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to stand up and feel like a human being again, but a fantasy of curling up in a blanket and hiding from the world crosses his mind.

“Alright!” The bearded man’s voice says. “Let’s fill the freak up. Who’s next?”

 _What! No, you can’t! You have to let me go, you can’t—_ Ford’s head rises without thinking, trying in vain to form words through the gag, but all that comes out muffled noises. They can’t do it _again_. It was _over_. They can’t be serious, this isn’t _happening_.

Someone is kneading his buttocks like dough, and there are people talking around him, but he can barely hear them. He doesn’t want to. He didn’t think he had enough spirit left in him to panic, but he does. His violated body goes rigid, hyperventilating around the gag, and there’s a part of him that wants to beg _Bill_ to make this stop. If anyone is listening despite the gag, it’s him. But he can’t, Bill is enjoying this enough as it is.

It hurts slightly less the second time. Ford’s not sure if it’s because his body is getting used to it or because the second man’s member is smaller. It goes into him differently, touching new places inside him, still grating painfully through his sphincter. Violating every boundary he’d thought he had. There are hands touching him too, feeling every tremble and shudder through his body, rubbing and scratching, but the big wound is through his ass.

He can’t stop sobbing. It’s like they’ve taken even that part of bodily control from him.

He feels like a broken shell, torn apart inside and outside. Like he’s just a body, nothing more. Bill has managed to reduce him to a vessel for others even when he’s conscious.

It goes on forever, but finally the second person finishes. Ford feels a warm, wet tongue travelling up his spine before he pulls out.

He no longer expects it to be over, but he expects a moment of rest, so when a new man penetrates him immediately after the second one has pulled out, he’s frozen in shock. The third one goes in slowly, agonizingly, and yes, the second person was probably smaller, or this one is bigger, but it doesn’t matter because either way it’s unbearable, but this one hurts _more_.

The intrusion keeps sinking into him until when he thinks he has to be done, it goes even deeper. His abused hole feels like a burning wound again. Ford gasps around the gag, tears dripping from his eyes down at the table. Everything is wet, and dirty, and public.

The stranger pulls out just as slowly, almost all the way. Enough to keep the agonizing scraping through his hole going, but not enough to go away, to allow him to close himself up. Instead he stops and goes back in, deliberately slow, almost leisurely. It’s excruciating, and the lack of outright violence only makes the sensation of being invaded linger and last.

His own penis hurts now, even though they’ve never touched it. It’s hot with blood, twitching for every slow stroke inside his anus, where the invader brushes the nerves that have no business even being there. It’s like an itch that cannot be scratched, a discordant undertone to the pain and humiliation and filth. He can’t stop trembling.

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him, and in the moment, he’s unable to care. He just wants it all to stop. It doesn’t.

The man behind him picks up his pace slightly. Slowly but inexorably. It’s as if he’s being hollowed out, excavated on the inside, bruised on parts of him that should never be touched in the first place. He should be _used_ to it now. There’s no way to tell time, but it feels like it’s been an eternity. Anonymous hands keep brushing his skin, rubbing, clawing, merely reminding him that they’re there. That’s he’s in the middle of a crowd, naked inside and out, being watched and touched and _used_.

The man keeps rocking into him, and Ford is barely aware of a pitiful whine emerging past the gag in his mouth. A hand pets his hair, almost gently.

“Hey,” a voice says, quiet enough that Ford can only just hear him over the music and the physical horror that overwhelms his body in waves for every thrust. Someone getting seated on the table next to Ford’s head, petting his hair like a child’s. “ _Sixer_. You’re a good freak. I’ve been thinking.”

His hand on Ford’s head is definitely gentle, too gentle. Combined with the unrelenting violence between his legs, the soft touch of a person he can almost see, on a part of his body that isn’t even much of a violation, is stunning, disconcerting.

“It’s a pity with the gag,” the gentle man says. Unexpectedly, miraculously, he reaches behind Ford’s neck and unclasps something. The straps fall past his ears, and the ball inside his mouth is no longer held securely inside. The man uses his fingers to help push it out past Ford’s teeth.

Ford’s jaws snap shut and for a moment there’s nothing but the relief of finally working some saliva onto his dry tongue. The man behind him his pulling out slowly again, but a second later he thrusts into Ford with full strength, fast and merciless.

“Gah!” What had been gasps and whimpers with the gag is involuntarily vocalized this time.

“Oh, good! You have a voice.” The gentle man is in front of Ford now, but Ford can barely see him through his own tears. The assault in his hole just picked up, as if the man violating him had only been going slowly as a warm-up, as if real thing is starting now. The gag is gone and Ford needs to form words, but he can’t _think_.

A hand brushes Ford’s cheek, wiping some of the tears away with his thumb, then lifts Ford’s head by the chin. Gently. Not by the hair, like the bearded man had done.

“You’re much prettier like this.” The man is young, in his twenties, pimples still on his face. He brushes the tears from Ford’s other cheek, even as Ford emits another strangled sound of pain.

There’s something broken inside him. There has to be, or it wouldn’t hurt this much. Every movement breaks it further, tears it up wider.

“P-please,” he finally manages. His voice is a hoarse crackle, as if he hasn’t been using it in years.

The young man smiles at him, brushing his fingers across Ford’s lips.

“You can talk? What do you want?” He still sounds gentle.

“Please,” Ford repeats, “Stop. Make them—nguh!—make them stop! I didn’t—I didn’t—” He doesn’t know what to say. How do you make a whole group of people _stop raping you_? It occurs to him that they know what they’re doing. They’re not going to listen. The gag was just a ruse.

He’s shaking violently now, trying to speak while a person he can’t see is gouging him out from behind. A deep breath, broken by a thrust inside him. He tries again.

‘“Stop it!” he screams.

For a moment, everything goes still. The penis inside his ass. The fingers on his thighs. The hands on his hips, the nails on his spine. He thinks he can hear labored breathing from someone other than himself.

The man penetrating him starts snickering, then howl with laughter. It vibrates through his body, into Ford’s. The rest of the group joins in, even the man whose face Ford can see laughs gleefully. They all heard, and it was _funny_ to them.

The thrusting starts again even before the laughter dies. The man never pulls out, but goes at it with renewed vigor.

“Nah,” the man in front of him says, still grinning. “I don’t think so.” His fingers traces Ford’s lips, resting there as if savoring the way they tremble when Ford tries not to make sounds.

Ford tries to gather his wits, but his wits are scattered to the winds along with his dignity and bodily integrity. Everything hurts. He is hollow. He is nothing. “Please stop,” he says again, not as loud. This time no one pays him any heed. “Why are you—hnnngh!—why are you doing this? I didn’t—I don’t—Please! Stop!”

The young man makes a humming sound, dipping a finger in and out between Ford’s lips. “You really want us to stop?”

“Yes.” Ford gasps again, as a last forceful thrust rocks him, and finally, the third man seems to be finished. He fondles Ford’s hips, then his buttocks, then slowly drags his limp penis out of his hole. There are already new hands at the crack between his buttocks, and he doesn’t have the energy even to squirm. New liquid drips out of him, running down his leg.

“Hey guys,” the young man says, addressing the group. “Hold it for a sec.” Ford trembles as a hand strokes up and down his buttcrack, rubbing at the semen leaking from his hole, but for the moment nothing goes inside him, and that’s a relief. It’s such a small relief that he’s almost ashamed of it.

“The freak really does want to stop,” the young man continues, and Ford’s heart skips a beat with—relief? hope?—he doesn’t know but _please let them stop this madness_.

“So what?” The hand in his buttcrack keeps rubbing against his hole.

“So I wanna make a bet.” He grins and looks down at Ford again. “I wanna see if the freak here can get me off with his mouth. Lips and tongue only. I’m not going to move at all. If he _can_ , we’ll call the rest of tonight off.”

Ford stares at him, not sure what he expected.

“Too easy,” someone says.

“Well, I’m not gonna accept it if it takes forever. Gotta get me off before I get bored of it.”

“And if he can’t?”

“I’ll think of something.” He turns to Ford. “Do we have a deal?”

The phrase makes Ford instinctively recoil, but the way he’s restrained it’s no more than a wince. He can feel eyes on him, and this time they expect something of him other than a meatbag to be used. “I don’t even know how to—to do that!” he protests weakly. Despite nothing pounding inside him but his own heart, his voice is still cracking.

“You don’t have to accept the offer. We could just keep going if that’s what you want.” He leans forward. “We can fuck your ass all night, until there’s nothing left of you but a puddle of cum on the floor. If you want to. Or we could stop, but in that case you’re gonna have to work for it. What’ll it be?”

He wants it to end.

“Well?”

“Why are you doing this?” It was hardly more than a whisper.

“Because you deserve it, freak.” He scoffs. “Now tell me what you want to do next, let the next guy ride you or do the blowjob challenge.”

He draws a shaky breath. “I’ll do it.” If he can make it all stop—if this could all be over with one more humiliation—he’ll do it. Whatever it takes. It’s a chance.

“Nice.” The man unzips and pulls out his mostly erect penis in a smooth move. “Now tell me you want my cock in your mouth.”

“I told you I’ll do it, I don’t—” He’s interrupted by the man pushing the top part of his penis inside Ford’s mouth, and then he’s thoroughly gagged again. It tastes like sweat, like an unwashed armpit, and the unfiltered disgust that floods him almost makes him retch, almost makes him miss the next words.

“You got sixty seconds. Make them count.”

That’s almost no time at all. There’s a foul-tasting _body part_ in his mouth. This is no better than having it in his ass—there’s someone inside him again, in a new place. And this—he’s not thrusting or anything, he’s expecting Ford to do the work. They all are. No one moves, they must all be focusing on this, and Ford is frozen for several valuable seconds.

He tries rubbing his tongue against the glans. The taste seems to carry filth all the way to his fingertips, but he’s rewarded with an appreciative grunt. He tries again with more force, and the stiff body part in his mouth grows, goes harder. Which is good. His brain finally decides to throw synapses together again, and it occurs to him that this is the referent to a common idiom. He’s supposed to _suck_.

He purses his lips around the penis and sucks, struggling to push his feelings of disgust aside for as long as it takes. He wriggles his tongue along the bottom of the glans and sucks, barely breathing. It has to work. This has to be how you do it. The man groans something, and that’s a good sign, it has to be. The penis is trembling slightly.

“Time’s up!” someone shouts, but it can’t be. That wasn’t enough time, they just decided on that limit at the last second, and he’s almost there, it can’t be long left until—

The man places his hands behind Ford’s neck to keep him still, then pushes the full length of his erection down Ford’s throat.

Ford convulses. His whole body goes rigid, heaving, unable to push the intrusion back up but unable to stop retching. The world turns into a red haze as his digestive tract tries to turn itself inside out to get free, but nothing happens other than muscles contracting in pain. Finally, the thing in his throat pulls back into his mouth, but only for a second. There’s no respite before it’s thrusted back down.

He can’t tell how long it goes on. It can’t be very long, because it feels like he’s dying and he’s not breathing for any of it, but he isn’t actually dead by the time the penis pulls back all the way and leaves his mouth gaping empty. Something hot and sticky lands on his forehead and runs into his eyes, but he barely notices, too occupied trying to get air into his lungs while burning acid keeps gathering in his mouth. He throws up on the table—mostly slime, he hasn’t eaten in a while—and coughs painfully for too long, before he finally gets a lungful of beautiful air.

“Shit,” the man who just destroyed his throat says, and there’s something weird about his voice, but Ford is in too much pain to try to place it. “Just say the word, man.” Someone brings tissues to wipe the gall away from the table, from Ford’s face, before letting his face down on the surface again. He’s beyond exhausted, beyond terrified for his own life and sanity. His guts are still twitching, his genitals are somehow still aching, and his anus is a wound open to the public, but somehow _that_ was worse.

It takes until several moments after he’s started breathing regularly again to notice that no one is touching him. It’s like they’re all waiting for something.

“Say the word,” the one before him repeats.

Ford opens his mouth, finds no voice. He swallows and tries again. “Please stop this,” he croaks. “Let me go. Please.” He’s lost the challenge, and that experience has to have been the punishment, but the man did get off. It has to count for something.

Instead of doing anything of the sort, there is some sort of collective release of breath around him. It’s followed by huffs and chuckles and then there’s a hand between his buttocks again, a finger dipping into his abused hole.

“Obviously not!” someone shouts.

“You failed that one, freak!”

“We’re not done yet! Let’s spice it up!”

There are more shouts, almost like they’re trying to egg each other on. Ford presses his face against the table and tries to zone it out. They’re not going to stop. He got his hopes up for nothing. He voluntarily _tried_ to get that man off for nothing. He’s never going to taste anything other than sweat and stomach acid again, and they’re going to continue fucking his ass anyway.

People are moving around him. Suddenly they release his arms, but he barely has time to process that fact before he’s efficiently turned around on his back, his arms splayed out on either side of him again. He makes an attempt to pull away before the refasten the restraints, but there’s no strength in him. The adrenalin that coursed through him earlier has run out, leaving nothing but pain and exhaustion. Even if it hadn’t, he’s crowded, held down by sheer numbers.

Lying on his back makes everything different. He can see more people, At least ten of them—perhaps more, further back. He can’t see them clearly, not in this light and without his glasses, but he can make most of them out. They’re no longer unseen ghosts, but actual human beings. Whether that makes it better or not is debatable.

They are people, eyeing his naked body hungrily, and somehow he seems to be even _more_ naked when his front side is exposed. They’re humming appreciatively, and instead of going on to the next person to penetrate him, they’re starting to use their hands again, and he just wishes they could get on with it. They are people, real physical hands touching his chest and his nipples and his stomach and navel.

His penis is somehow standing half-erect despite all the agony. A tall man standing right between his legs starts bouncing it back and forth by snapping his index fingers at the glans. The pain makes Ford tense up, stomach and thighs rigid, and the man laughs. No one else touches his genitals, but that doesn’t make the fact that they’re up in the air any easier.

He’s no longer gagged. He could talk, but there’s nothing he could say. They’re not going to stop.

More people end up between his legs, forcing them wider apart, and then he’s pushed up by hands under his buttocks, lifting him up in order to give access to his anus. Ford clenches his teeth, looks up at the dark ceiling, and tries to focus on breathing as the man in the middle starts fondling his hole. It feels dry and swollen, and a bitter ache runs through him when the man pushes a cold finger inside.

The finger pulls out immediately and comes back moments later coated with slime. He rubs the outside for a few moments, then dips two fingers inside, rubbing them hard against the nerve that makes Ford’s genitals ache and shudder. Grunting satisfaction, he pulls his fingers away and only then can Ford hear him unzip his pants.

The man goes in violently. Despite his best effort to keep his breathing regular, Ford gasps when the erection tears through him. He should be _used_ to this pain by now. Used to being invaded. Used to being a receptacle for other people’s pleasure. He’s not. It still hurts, and even if the physical pain in the sphincter somewhat less intense than it’s been, it still cuts him open, hollows him out, and there’s going to be nothing left.

The stranger pulls out, then shoves himself in again, setting a steady, hard rhythm. Perhaps it’s the work of gravity, being in a different position, but it feels like being penetrated differently this time. Different parts inside his guts being beaten.

He can’t think, he can’t focus, not even on breathing. Every thrust makes his breath hitch, and there are tears on his face again.

He didn’t know it was possible to take a beating from the inside. But that’s what this is.

There are hands on his chest. Hands feeling out the lines of his ribs, his collarbones, his throat—not squeezing or strangling, but there. Hands rubbing his nipples, sending spikes of unnamable discomfort towards his aching groin. Hands petting his stomach, dipping in and out of his navel. And over it all the relentless pounding of a man’s penis thrusting into his intestines, again and again and again.

This man pushes against the nerve that sends heat straight to Ford’s own genitals with every single thrust. Ford’s penis is feels like a burning rock by now, and it’s not just uncomfortable, but horrifying. It’s as if some energy is sucking all of his blood to his groin, making him yearn for something he doesn’t actually want, and coupled with the pain in his hole, it’s unbearable. Except he has no choice but to bear it.

Everyone can see it, too, now that he’s on his back. He thinks someone is mocking it, but it’s hard to make out words when every part of his body is being fondled and penetrated and on display. It shouldn’t matter, he doesn’t have any dignity left to lose.

He couldn’t have said how long it’s been – not how long this man fucks him, and certainly not how long he’s been conscious in this place. Eventually this man stops, too. There’s a moment of stillness after he pulls out, and everyone lets go of him, leaving him lying awkwardly with his buttocks on the table, legs half hanging backwards from its edge, erection pointed at the ceiling.

The erection is too obvious not to become the center of attention, to Ford and to everyone else. At least two hands softly stroke his skin around it, brushing his scrotum and deliberately avoiding to touch the member itself.

“We _should_ do something about this,” someone says, sounding amused.

“This _is_ kinda irresponsible.”

“Look! The color matches his face.”

Ford squeezes his eyes shut. His erection is like a red-hot poker in his own mind now that there’s nothing else going on. This makes no sense. Erections are supposed to happen when you’re aroused and when you touch it, not when—he knows technically that there was a nerve inside his ass that did it, but that doesn’t make it better. Erections are supposed to be private—or, he supposes, for someone you love—but not like this. There’s nowhere to hide it and it hurts. It’s too hard to ease up anytime soon, not if he can’t jerk himself off, and the way these people keep petting the area around it only makes it shudder and ache. He doesn’t _want_ them to touch it, but any alternative also seems unbearable and he can’t stop shivering.

They talk, but he’s not listening. When they finally start stroking his erection with their fingertips—too softly, too carefully, barely touching the most sensitive spots, but even so, he can feel it building towards release—he makes a low keening sound in spite of himself.

“You like this?” It’s addressed to Ford, but it takes a few moments for him to notice, and only because the fingers leave his erection. “Want to come?”

He doesn’t want to. But he _needs_ the perpetual ache in his genitals to stop. It _would_ feel better if they did make him ejaculate. He needs it. “Yes,” he gasps. He can feel more than see the grin on the man’s face.

A large hand grips around his penis and _jerks_. It’s anything but pleasant, but Ford is so close that it only takes a few steady movements before he comes, and it’s like a pressure lifted and he can relax again. Gravity makes the semen splatter on his stomach, but somehow, it does feel better. His muscles go limp, tension momentarily leaving him, and his head falls to the side. He breathes deeply, trying to savor the feeling of relief.

“We’re not _done_ , freak,” a man reminds him, leaning his face down close enough that his beard scrapes Ford’s cheek. It’s the same bearded man who showed him his erection an eternity ago. “Can you count?”

Ford doesn’t reply. He’s so—he’s so _empty_. Hollow, worn thin. The pressure in his groin gone, there seems to be nothing left at all. And they’re still not going to stop.

“I asked you a question! Can you count?”

“I can count.” His voice is thin, hoarse, but steadier than before. His body wants to stay limp. He wants them to kill him already.

“How many guys have fucked you so far?”

Three, four, five. “Five.”

“Mm-hm.” It seems it’s supposed to mean something. Ford doesn’t have it in him to ask.

The bearded man straightens up and goes to place his hand on Ford’s left palm, and—he did exactly that before they started, didn’t he? But he’s crouching this time, bent over Ford’s hand, and suddenly Ford feels something wet and warm travel the length of his thumb. Then his index finger. It occurs to him that the man is _licking_ his fingers, one after the other.

Why does he even care? How can something like that still make him feel so ill? A shiver runs up and down his arm, and he’s tense again, limpness almost forgotten. “Stop,” he whispers.

The man is done, but he runs his tongue over Ford’s fingertips again before he gets up. “Six,” he says. “Five is enough for normal people, but you’re a _freak_.”

Ford tries not to shudder. That, if nothing else here, is familiar territory. “So what?” he manages.

“So I’m going to have your ass again,” the man says in a low voice. “The _freaky_ way.”

It sounds like a threat, but Ford is too worn, too tired and used and abused already. He turns his head away.

They’re heaving him up again, just enough to make sure his swollen hole is exposed to the public. Slime-coated fingers rub across his entrance, dipping fingertips in and out, and every single touch _ache_. His flesh feels sore to the point of abrasion. It’s even worse now that there’s no tension in his groin to compete.

There’s going to be another penis forcing itself inside him, and he’s already been rubbed raw. He doesn’t even dare believe this will be the last time, whatever the bearded man said about his fingers.

It is indeed the bearded man who puts himself between Ford’s legs a second time. He waves two other people’s hands away and starts fingering Ford’s anus himself, obviously not in any hurry. Plunging two thick fingers in, he uses them to rub against the sides of Ford’s abused sphincter, feeling around, touching all the sore spots. He finds the particular nerve, but it doesn’t even spark anything this time—all it does is increase the discomfort.

The man hasn’t even started yet, but Ford is trembling again.

A third finger goes inside him, and when all three probe deeper, it stretches the sphincter as much as the penises did. Ford gasps when the man rotates his wrist, letting the irregular shape of the three fingers force him open in different ways. It hurts like a drill, slowly boring into him, and it’s not even the main thing. Why doesn’t he just go ahead and do it?

A fourth finger joins the three, plunging inside, and this time it’s not just a gasp, it’s a strangled noise of pain. The man starts going in and out with his fingers, and it’s like a cone—a thinner point at his fingertips turns into something thick and agonizing as he goes deeper.

“This is the bonus round, _Sixer_ ,” the man says out loud, and the nickname, in this context, hurts almost as much as the fingers tearing his sphincter apart. “This is because hands are clearly special to you. And _my_ hands are—” He drives his hand deeper, and suddenly there’s nothing but agony.

Ford screams. There’s pain reverberating through his guts all the way up to his throat and his vision turns into static and it’s _too much_. He’s blacking out and he welcomes it.

“Nice try, Fordsy!” Once again he barely gets a moment of unconsciousness, and then he’s back, and there’s a hot lump of agony forcing his hole open wider than should be possible.

He’s not sure they _didn’t_ use a knife. He _is_ being cut open this time. Or else that man just forced his whole fist inside Ford’s anus, and this is what that feels like.

The worst part is over, but that doesn’t mean much. The widest part of the hand must be inside—the knuckles—but the man is still pushing, deeper and deeper, knives cutting through Ford’s hole and into his guts. It’s like muscles straining trying to do something they’re not limber enough for, except Ford’s sphincter muscles are forced to do it whether they can or not. There’s no respite. He’s buried to his wrist, perhaps deeper, but staying open around the man’s wrist is too much, too.

Ford is breathing in short, shallow gasps, every nerve in his body frazzled and panicking. He’s vaguely aware that he’s straining against the restraints around his wrists again, trying to pull himself up, or backwards, or away from the pain, but it doesn’t help.

The man moves his hand inside Ford. His stomach heaves, contracting automatically against the invasion and he feels sick, but there’s nothing but pain inside him and he needs to breathe. There are red spots floating before his eyes again and every breath is a shuddering effort.

“Like I said,” the man says calmly, “Your hands are freaky, and mine are big. It’s exactly what you deserve. Normal fucktoys just get fucked, but you’re a _freak_ , after all.”

Ford gasps, making ugly noises every time the hand inside him moves a muscle.

This shouldn’t—this shouldn’t be _possible_.

“It’s warm and cozy alright. Maybe a little too tight.”

He can’t tell what the man is doing inside him. His fingers move slowly, agonizingly, ripping him apart from the inside. Ford’s stomach muscles convulse, and his hole burns as if there’s a hot iron shoved in there. The slightest movement he makes, even a shudder, reverberates through all of it and intensifies the pain, and it’s all he can do to stop himself from writhing.

There’s a bump rising on his stomach, despite his own reflexes straining torturously against it. There’s a hand moving _inside_ his stomach, making it bulge on the outside. He’s hollow, and there’s literally nothing left except pain.

Someone else puts his hand on Ford’s stomach and suddenly there’s pressure from both within and without. There’s laughter, and wows, and someone says something about pregnancy.

It’s possible that the pain grows slightly more bearable with passing minutes, but not by much. The man keeps slowly moving his hand, and there’s a whole arm lodged in his anus. Ford is tense as a wire, but he’s grown silent, deliberately breathing in and out between spikes of agony.

The man’s hand finally goes still. It’s a small relief. “Of course,” he says casually, “This is just a bonus, and it doesn’t really count as a fuck. You need a sixth guy to get your handful, and we’ve decided to give you one more chance with a blowjob.”

“No.” It’s just a croak, and it comes out of his throat almost against his will. “I can’t—I _can’t_.”

The bearded man chuckles. Someone else pats his hair, and Ford can’t see who, but it feels like it’s the same person who ruined his throat before.

The fist is still buried in Ford’s guts as one of the men—a new face—clambers up on the table and straddles Ford’s chest, squatting with his sneakers pressed against Ford’s armpits. He smiles when unzipping and displaying his half-hard member, then lifts Ford’s head forward and puts his tip against Ford’s lips. Not inside his mouth. “Lick,” he says.

Ford can’t think. The bearded man might have stopped moving his hand, but there is still a _hand_ inside him, and his whole nether area burns like a bleeding wound. “There’s no time limit,” the man straddling him says. “Just make it good. Lick.”

He licks. It’s just as foul-tasting as the first one, but somehow that’s almost a relief, a different disgust to distract from the horrifying invasion below. There’s nothing else he can do. He licks, and cups his lips around the man’s glans, and sucks when he gets close enough to try. The man moans in appreciation, slowly putting the tip of his penis inside Ford’s mouth, making it slightly easier. Then he inserts more, slowly but surely, and it swells, gradually filling the space in his mouth. He’s _trying_ to suck, trying to make it work before this one decides to go down his throat too, but it’s not working, and there’s a moment of cold panic when it touches the back of his mouth, brushing against his gag reflex, but then pulls back. Instead the man settles into gently rocking back and forth inside Ford’s mouth.

Ford keeps sucking, and licking, and trying to get it over with. It’s disgusting, but it _is_ a distraction from something worse, so it’s better to focus on this. He tells himself this is good, because it hurts less than being fucked in the other end. He tells himself this doesn’t matter; he doesn’t have any dignity or private parts left to lose either way. He tells himself that the licking and sucking doesn’t mean he’s actively having sex _with_ this person. He’s not sure he believes any of it.

The man gets off in the end. Ford’s mouth fills with seminal fluid, thick and slimy and salty, almost as disgusting as the penis itself.

“Swallow,” the man orders, only slowly pulling out his limp penis. “If you can’t swallow, we’re gonna have to do over.”

He wants nothing more than to spit it out and forget it was ever there, but the threat works, or perhaps it’s the unlikely hope that he _won’t_ have to do this again. He manages to swallow, almost throws it back up, but forces it down. The man keeps a hand on his throat where his esophagus is working, as if he enjoys to feel the struggle. Eventually Ford leans his head back, trying to pretend there aren’t new tears on his face.

The man straddling him ruffles his hair. “Very nice. Good freak.” He zips his pants up again and shuffles off the table, leaving Ford feeling cold and filthy.

His anus still burns, but he thinks it’s less. He can’t close it, but it seems to have settled around the intrusion, and he can breathe now, at least for the moment.

The bearded man hums. “Feeling good?”

It might be addressed to Ford, but he doesn’t react.

Without a word, the man shakes his fist inside Ford’s guts. His abused sphincter muscle that had settled into a stretched position around the man’s wrist is shaken, grated, and it feels like knives all over again. Ford makes a wordless noise, then clenches his teeth and tries once more to focus on not squirming. It’s going to hurt more, and he doesn’t know how much more.

“Well, hope you learned something. Counting to six and the use of normal people’s hands, at least!”

The group huffs and chuckles, laughing as they and rub his stomach, his thighs, his chest, congratulating him on being a good freak, a good fucktoy, and maybe that’s what he is. Covered in these people hands and genitals, inside and out. They like him like this. They’re not going to let him go, and this time he’s not sure if it’s a sob or a violent shudder that goes through him.

“Now,” the bearded man says. “Let’s get my fist out of your tight little hole to leave room for other stuff—”

At that, he starts pulling his arm out. This should be a good thing. It _is_ a good thing.

It doesn’t hurt quite as much the second time, but it’s still agonizing. Ford whimpers, trying not to scream as the widest part of the hand—so much bigger than anything that _should_ pass through that hole—is coaxed through his burning sphincter again. When it’s over, Ford is panting, every muscle in his body aching hollowly. His stomach and anus are painfully trying to settle back into their regular shapes, and the horrifying possibility of never being able to close himself up properly again crosses his mind. He squeezes, and it only hurts more.

There’s a moment of silence when no one is touching him at all. He tries to relish it. The other shoe is going to drop and everything hurts. Maybe it’ll stop hurting if they keep going long enough. He doesn’t have much else to hope for.

They’re strangely gentle as they release the restraints on his arms. He assumes they’re just going to turn him around again, but then the loops around his wrists are removed altogether, and that’s—unexpected.

No one stops him from pulling his arms in over his chest.

Someone turns off the music, and the silence is deafening.

“Ten minutes, then,” the bearded man says. “We’ll be back in ten minutes.”

They leave.

He can hear a door open, then close, and somehow, miraculously, he’s alone.

Ten minutes. They’ll be back in ten minutes, but he’s not tied down and maybe he can get up. He’s weak—he’s filthy and hollow and worn—and it’s no use, but—

He gathers what’s left of his will and rolls over, shuffling his sweaty, abused mess of a body off the table. Every movement sends needles of pain from his ass, but nothing stops him from standing up.

His legs are trembling, close to folding beneath him when he puts weight on them. It feels like he hasn’t used them in years. It’s other parts of his body that have been used. He tries to walk, and it hurts, but he can. There’s an ache centered on his anus that makes everything from his knees to the base of his ribs feel sore, and he’s naked and sticky and covered in small red bruises and scratchmarks, but he’s alone and no one is touching him.

It’s not going to last. He knows they’re going to come back, and the knowledge makes him feel violently ill, but what can he do?

He glances around the room—the lights are still dim, and there’s some kind of furniture, but it’s all blurred without his glasses—and focuses on a particular piece of cloth discarded on the floor nearby. It’s his pants. A piece of—normality? Human existence?

He can’t see his underwear, but it doesn’t matter. Crouching down to pick the pants up hurts, and forcing his legs into them feels like knives shooting through him from behind, but he does it quickly and with little hesitation. He needs to feel human.

It’s better, but he’s still trembling.

_They’re just going to tear them off again._

How many minutes does he have left?

There’s the door the men left through, but it’s going to be locked, and for all he knows they could be waiting right outside. They’re going to come back through it in just a few minutes, and Ford doesn’t know exactly what will happen, but he can’t imagine it’ll be much different, and he _can’t_ —

There’s a curtain on the opposite wall.

He hobbles over to it, pulls it aside, and almost sobs in relief. It’s a window. It’s nighttime outside and he can just make out an open area with some grass, not much else, but the window is large enough and not too high off the ground.

He’s prepared to break the glass and cut himself bloody climbing through if that’s what it takes, but the window opens without protest when he turns the handle. He’s rewarded with a lungful of fresh, icy air. He has no time to question his luck, no time to question anything. He has nowhere to go, but he’s not staying here.

Climbing through the window involves using his legs and even putting some weight on his buttocks. It’s excruciating, but he doesn’t dare make a sound. His bare feet land in the frosty grass outside and he runs.

It’s well below freezing, and he’s barefoot and shirtless, but he runs. He runs even though it feels like the men has left shards of broken glass in his hole, cutting him apart as he moves. There’s something wet inside his pants, and he doesn’t know if it’s blood or shit or leftover semen, but it’s disgusting and he’s disgusting and he can’t stop.

His lungs burn in the frozen air. His feet quickly turn numb, the rest of his body not far behind. It occurs to him that the sweat and—and other fluids on him is lowering his temperature dangerously fast, and he’s not going to last very long like this.

But if he’d stayed and looked for the rest of his clothes, he might never have gotten away at all. The ten minutes may already be up. They’re going to come looking for him, and he doesn’t even know where he is. He’s passed a few bare trees. He might be in a park. He needs to find someplace to hide, but everything is dark and blurry and between terror and pain and cold it’s hard to think clearly.

The frosty grass gives way to icy asphalt under his numb feet. Not a road, but—a parking lot? It’s almost empty, but there’s one car, right over there, and it seems familiar. Unnaturally so. Almost as if—

It’s _his_ car.

He stops, wheezing, only to realize that once he lost the momentum, he can barely move. He’s shaking from the cold, teeth clattering, and it’s a struggle just to get enough oxygen from the freezing air, but it’s _his car_. He can get away.

Finally managing to limp the last few steps to the car, he tears at the door. It’s locked.

Of course it’s locked. He leans against the window, more cold seeping through his bare arms, panic shooting through him again. He can almost feel eyes on his back. But the car key—his fingers are numb, but amazingly, the key is still there when he digs through the pockets of his pants. His wallet is still there, too, which might be even more miraculous, but he can’t stop to wonder.

He fumbles with the key in the lock with stiff fingers, missing the keyhole twice. He knows they’ll be here any moment, but his damn fingers are too numb to work. It must have been more than ten minutes. They could be right behind him. He can barely move and barely see and he wouldn’t have a chance against anyone in this condition.

Finally getting the door open, he throws himself inside and gasps in pain as he makes himself take the driver’s seat. It hurts to sit, but there’s no alternative.

The door is slammed behind him and locked, but he’s still shaking from cold and more as he fumbles with the key again, igniting the engine and tightly gripping the wheel. He’s driving, pushing his bare feet to the pedals, and he’s numb and sore and hollowed out, but he’s driving and he’s going to get away.

He finds a road and follows it, no idea where he is or where he’s going. He’s not driving well—or legally, especially not without his glasses—but he doesn’t care. The only thing he cares about is getting as much distance between himself and that event as possible.

There’s not much traffic. The road signs are too blurry to make sense. He follows the road he’s on, past dark houses, through an open field. He could be anywhere.

His old heater is humming loudly and finally starts giving off decent heat. It’s only when the stream of hot air starts to thaw him out enough that his teeth stop clattering that it gets through to him that he did escape. There’s no one here. No one can see him, or touch him, or _penetrate_ him, and for some reason that realization makes him cry again, tears welling in his eyes.

He doesn’t understand what happened to him. He doesn’t know how to handle it, but it’s _over_. He’s alive. He’s—

He pulls over under a copse of trees, before giving in and allowing himself a breakdown, curling up on his side and sobbing without restraint. He feels filthy. He feels empty. He feels _lost_ , in more than one way.

He feels exhausted, and too overrun by pain and emotion to struggle much against encroaching sleep.

“So!” Bill says chipperly, as Ford finds himself in a dark mindscape. “How did you like it?”

Ford takes a moment to process the situation. He should feel dread, but there’s relief, too. His mindscape self is fully clothed, and the physical pain is gone. The fact that such things matter in the face of a demon who wants to use him to destroy the world is slightly pathetic.

“You did this.” He’s distantly furious, distantly terrified, but mostly numb.

“Sure did!” Bill floats closer to Ford, circling him. “Well, it was all of those guys who really _did_ it, and man, human beings are disgusting, am I right?”

“Disgusting,” Ford repeats, half-consciously pulling his arms around himself.

“All those fluids, putting their thingies in each other’s holes… Well, you got some of that ‘intimacy’ you’ve been lacking in your life! How do you like it?”

“What do you want?”

“Well! Since you’re asking!” Bill settles himself in the air before Ford, glowing yellow and twirling his cane. “For one thing, I think it’s hilarious to see you in pain.”

That makes Bill and _everyone_ , apparently. “You’ve told me that before,” he says.

“For another thing, I wanted you to know I can arrange these things for you! Human beings sure like their fucking!”

Ford glared at him.

“So what I’m saying is, I’m still waiting for some pieces to get in place, and meanwhile, it’s lots of fun to possess your meatbag—but turning it back to you for some proper human bonding time is even better!”

“It’s a joke to you.” Or course it is. Everything is a joke to Bill. Ford has always been a joke to Bill, even when he thought they were friends, even when they were playing chess and chatting about science all night and Bill called him brilliant and amazing.

“You can think of it that way! Oooor—” He pauses dramatically. “—you could call it a demonstration. It’s cute and all when you try to stop me from using our portal, but if that portal doesn’t open exactly when I intend it to, I assure you you’re going to be spending the rest of your life being fucked just like that.”

Ford swallows, the taste of strangers’ genitals lingering on his tongue even in the mindscape.

“You can’t do that.” It comes out quieter than he intended.

“Sure I can! I’ve already made all sorts of fun arrangements, just in case! Tell you what, there’s a _lotta_ people willing to fuck you that way—you just don’t know who they are.”

That’s—he _doesn’t_ know. He already doesn’t trust strangers, but—

He knows Bill is trying to upset him, but after a _demonstration_ like that, it’s clearly not an empty threat. Bill is a liar, but he tells the truth when he needs to. He really needs that portal open, and he clearly _can_ accomplish this.

“Of course, once things work out and this dimension is mine, I’ll have no reason to torment you anymore! And since you’ll be one of us, I can guarantee you’ll have enough power to completely crush any human who even thinks about touching you. So that’s something to consider!”

Ford clenches his fists against the fabric of his mindscape coat and remembers the postcard he sent to Stanley. He was going to ask him to hide the last piece of instructions for the portal, but maybe he can ask his brother to lock him in a cage or—

To protect him. Like he used to protect him when they were kids. Despite everything, he’s hanging onto the thread of hope that Stanley can help.

“Your brute of a twin?” Of course Bill is reading his mind—he’s inside it. “You really think I couldn’t convince _him_ to fuck you?”

Ford recoils. “That’s ridiculous!”

“You sure about that? You don’t know what he’s been up to in all these years!”

Ford takes a step backwards, then another, and wakes up curled on his side in the driver’s seat in his car, still filthy, empty, lost, and now more frightened than ever.

_Trust no one. Don’t sleep._

He doesn’t know what to do.


End file.
